Shake The Stars
by Alakata
Summary: The Ministry has a policy on werewolves: "If it puts a foot out of line, kill it." Harry Potter has a policy on the Ministry: "When I'm old enough, I'm going to put THEM in silver cages." Albus Dumbledore doesn't approve. werewolf!Harry HPLV SLASH.
1. Chapter 1

**DISCLAIMER:** Harry and all his friends belong to JKR, not me. *weep* I don't own anything else you recognise, either.

**SUMMARY**: "Werewolves are all monsters. Kill them." "The Boy Who Lived will save us." Faced with a world that can't decide whether it loves him for what he's done or hates him for what he is, unsure of who is friend and who is foe, Harry does what he does best: survive. HPLV

**WARNINGS**: AU. Swearing. Blood, gore, violence and torture. Child abuse, favouritism, angst, character death. References to sex. Dark!Harry. Evil!Harry. HPLV slash. Spoilers from most of the books at some point. Rated 'M' for safety and future chapters. I think that's all for now.

**PAIRINGS**: Future HPLV.

**NOTES**: I rewrote this chapter. The other one was... quite horrendous, to be honest. Enjoy, and do tell me what you think! :3

* * *

_The spirits white as lightning  
Would on my travels guide me  
The stars would shake and the moon would quake  
Whenever they espied me._

_And then that I'll be murdering  
The Man in the Moon to the powder  
His staff I'll break, his dog I'll shake  
And there'll howl no demon louder._

Tom O'Bedlam

* * *

The Paris night sky was lit up by thousands - millions - of lights, of all colours, from comforting gold to glaring neon red. Harry Potter, clutching a small rucksack to his chest, gazed around in awe at all the people passing by, at the magnificent costumes sported by the actors there to entertain and the outlandish clothing worn by tourists from other countries only there for the show. His aunt and uncle had dumped him off here for the night while they went to eat in some fancy restaurant. They didn't want 'the freak' there to embarrass them in front of the other visitors, so they'd left Harry here with admonishments to make his own way back to the hotel. Harry snorted derisively. Yeah, as though he'd really expected them to bother coming to collect him.

Any other kid his age would have been worried and upset at being left alone in a strange city for so long, Harry knew, but he found it... liberating. No Uncle Vernon to shake his fist in a barely veiled threat ('_Just one wrong move, boy, just one show of freakishness_...') or Aunt Petunia to look down her nose at him and sniff derisively, as though he weren't worthy to be in her presence. And, best of all, no Dudley to do what Uncle Vernon couldn't do without repercussion. No pinching, no being hit, no being blamed for something he hadn't done, no haven't his stuff stolen off him - not that he had much stuff, really, but still it was the principle of the thing that mattered - it was GREAT.

A man with a myriad of brightly coloured balloons stopped just in front of him, stooping down to talk to a little girl with blonde pigtails. The light from the lamps glinted off the balloons, sending rainbow rays shooting off into the darkness. The balloons were decorated in all sorts of ways, some with characters he recognised from the TV Dudley watched and some he'd never seen before at all, and in the uneven light it almost seemed as though they moved. He gazed, mesmerised, at one particular balloon: there was a snake on it, coiled peacefully around a beautiful apple tree. Its bright green eyes seemed to be staring at him, and he stared back. He blinked, incredulous, when the snake seemed to ... _wink_ at him? Surely not.

He dismissed the thought as his imagination playing up.

The girl giggled happily, and the mother - a tall, pretty lady speaking French - thanked the balloon man. They walked off together, the girl clutching at the mother's hand with one of her own and the balloon with the other. Harry's chest felt tight watching them. He wasn't sure why.

The man must have noticed him staring, Harry thought, because he grinned widely and walked up. Harry, gazing up at him, couldn't help but think that he had to be the tallest man he'd ever seen. Even bigger than Uncle Vernon!

"Salut!" the man said cheerfully, crouching down so that he was at face level with Harry. "Ou sont tes parents?"

Harry stared at him uncomprehendingly. He knew that salut meant hi, and he could guess 'parents'... He supposed the man was probably asking where his parents were. He wondered, suddenly, what the French word for 'heaven' was. There'd never been any doubt in his mind that that was where they'd gone after they were killed in that car crash. After all, his relatives hated them. That pretty much confirmed that they had been wonderful people.

"Ah... salut?" he managed to say after the man started to frown, probably at his silence. "Mes parents..." well, there were three of his grand total of six French words gone. Should he tell him? He'd never see the man again, he was sure, it wouldn't make any difference to Harry whether he told the man or not. Maybe he'd even get a free balloon out of sympathy if he told the balloon guy about his parents. Adults were like that. They were all up for saying '_I'm sorry_' and making other kind, useless gestures to assuage their consciences ... but they never really _helped._ "are dead."

Harry was on his own in the world. He knew that.

The man blinked, and seemed to draw back slightly. Harry, slightly chagrined, suddenly realised that he was in _France_ and there was no guarantee the man would understand what he just said. Oops. But the man did eventually speak again, scratching his head whilst smiling sheepishly.

"Sorry to hear that, kid." He had an American accent, Harry noticed. He wondered why an American was selling balloons in Paris. That seemed a bit odd. The man fell silent again for a minute, and Harry just watched passively and waited for him to speak again. He was fairly sure this was the point where he was offered a balloon. It was silly, but he really wanted one now.

"...Would you like a balloon? Nobody seems to want one tonight, so I'm sure the boss wouldn't mind me giving you one. They're nice, aren't they? It'd be a shame to let 'em go to waste. Go on, pick one." He smiled, and Harry couldn't help but smile back; it was infectious. The balloon man was stupid and useless and blind but he was _nice, _and Harry had so little to smile about that he liked to take his chances when he could.

Sometimes Harry worried that he'd forget how to smile, when he was locked in his cupboard in the dark and there was nothing to smile about at all.

"Yeah..." he said softly. "I would. Do you really not mind? Won't you get in trouble?" He wouldn't be able to keep it, Uncle Vernon wouldn't stand for 'the freak' actually owning something of his own - blasphemy! - but just this once... He'd really like to be able to say that he had something to call his own. Even if it WAS only some silly balloon.

The American laughed. "Nah, don't worry about me. Go on, pick whichever one you want." He lowered his arm so that the balloons were closer to Harry's face. Harry contemplated the balloons for a moment, his gaze flitting from balloon to balloon, but he kept being drawn back to one in particular. "I'd like that one with the snake, please." He said. He could have _sworn _the snake smiled at him when he said that.

But snakes couldn't smile. And 2D snakes painted on plastic balloons _most certainly _could not smile.

The man seemed surprised by his choice, if the way his eyebrows suddenly rose was any indication, but he nodded and retrieved the requested balloon from the group. "I'd have thought you'd've gone for one of the flashier balloons, kid. Guess not. It's an unusual choice, but then you seem to be an unusual kid."

He handed the balloon down to Harry, and Harry took it, clutching at the plastic ribbon that attached a weight to the balloon to stop it flying off. "Thank you, sir." He said, ignoring the comment about being unusual. He heard that (or more often, its less polite cousin) so often that he'd gotten used to it.

Harry was fairly sure it wasn't a compliment in the balloon man's eyes, but he'd rather be 'unusual' or a 'freak' than 'normal'. The Dursleys were normal, and Harry would have been hard pressed to believe that anyone would want to be like them, except that he knew that everyone else in Little Whinging was exactly the same.

"No problem. Now you take care of yourself."

The man turned to leave, but Harry said quickly: "You too, sir. And ... good luck selling your balloons." He wasn't sure why - it wasn't as though he'd ever see the man again, but ... he'd been nice. That was worth a few pretty words.

All Harry got in reply to that was a chuckle and a friendly wave, and then the man was gone, quickly becoming lost in the press of the crowd. All Harry could see of him was the balloons, floating above the heads of the people rushing past. Eventually Harry couldn't see the balloons any more, and he turned to his plastic companion. "Just you and me, huh, Mr Balloon?" he said with a wry smile.

It was getting late, Harry realised as he looked around. His heart sank. With one last desperate gaze around him, he slung his backpack over his shoulder and started wading his way through the people hurrying to get to the stalls and shows at the other end of the plaza.

Dodging someone trying to sell him something - useless junk, no doubt, and did he _really _look like someone who'd be able to pay them for it? - he slipped into one of the side streets that lead back to the hotel they were staying at. He could have sworn that he saw something green and glinting in one of the tiny 'alleys' in between the buildings, but dismissed that as a figment of his imagination too. _I'm seeing things all over the place tonight_, he thought scornfully, and continued on down the road.

The moon was just rising, casting a pale, milky light over the street now that he was away from the glare of the festival lights. It was cold, despite it being the middle of August. It had been reasonably warm earlier, but a chill wind had picked up, blowing from the north. He shivered, wrapping the threadbare coat the Dursleys had provided him with closer around him. Glancing warily around him, he found that the houses that had seemed so lovely and so welcoming earlier now seemed foreboding, like huge black giants rising up out of pools of shadows.

It really _was _late. He hadn't intended to stay away from the hotel for so long, but the festival atmosphere had been... intoxicating. Harry wasn't the neighbourhood freak here, just another kid blending into the crowd. For a while there he had felt almost free.

- - -

A few minutes later, he turned off the road he was on and into a narrower one. Out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw a dark shape moving from the shadows; he gasped and spun around, but when he looked there was nothing there. He frowned, and turned back to the way he had been walking before, his heart thumping wildly in his chest. He picked up the pace.

He scurried along the small footpath, shoulders hunched forwards against the night chill. On the other side of the narrow road, two dark figures seemed to turn to look at him. He was relieved when they quickly lost interest and he lost sight of them as they turned into another street. He hunched into his coat and hurried on, clenching his fists determinedly. He recognised this road - it was only a few down from the hotel he and his relatives were staying at. He was almost back. Almost safe - from whatever dangers lurked around Paris at this time of night, anyway.

_I'd almost take them over the Dursleys_, he thought wryly. He hadn't called them family in a long time. They'd never done anything to deserve him calling them his family.

He passed another of the tiny alleyways that littered this part of Paris, and jerked in surprise. It was unmistakable this time. There was the glowing green he had seen earlier, and this time he could recognise them for what they were: eyes. He got the distinct feeling he was being followed, and swallowed nervously. His heart thudded painfully. Those eyes were very like his own in colour, but somehow he didn't think they were nice eyes. They seemed to glow with malice.

Coming to an intersection across a main road, he flashed a glance left and right and crossed. He had to force himself not to run. Running drew attention to you. It was better to keep a steady pace. He knew that well. And don't show any fear. He knew that, too.

Despite his best intentions, though, his throat felt tight and he could feel himself speeding up as he walked. He had to force himself not to run.

He turned into the road the hotel was on, and there it was: he could see it, stark and black against the night sky except where the lights shone out through blinds and curtains.

He heard a low, rumbling growl behind him and he didn't bother looking back to check what was making it. He gave up his decision not to run and just ran, pelting headlong into the darkness, hurtling towards the hotel. The balloon bobbed along behind him, being jerked this way and that as he ran.

Some detached part of him was sure this was the fastest he had ever run but he didn't care because he'd never been this scared in his life, either, not even went Aunt Marge had set Ripper on him and it sort of sounded like that, all harsh pants and snarls and growls and ohgod he was scared _don'tletitgetme_!

It was going to catch him. He needed to run _faster._

He dropped the balloon, and running became so much easier without it catching on the wind. He winced when he heard it pop and squeal sadly and he really wanted to go back and save it because it was _his _but he put his head down and forced his legs to run _harder, faster _because he didn't want to die here _God save me please._

God didn't seem to like him much because he could feel its hot, fetid breath on his neck and smell its stench - blood, disease, decay - _so strong_. He gagged and his eyes were watering and he couldn't see and then he was falling and screaming and rolling trying to get away but his face was on fire and everything was red and hazy and _he had to get away._ There was a bang and someone was screaming thinly and it was over him, standing with a heavy paw pressing down on him and he could see it now and oh God it was some sort of dog-thing, glaring down with eyes from hell and it was smiling, enjoying this. He thrashed and screamed, blinded by the red and the pain he'd never felt anything like this before and _save me please _and then _black._


	2. Chapter 2

**DISCLAIMER:** Harry and all his friends belong to JKR, not me. *weep* I don't own anything else you recognise, either.

**WARNINGS**: AU. Swearing. Blood, gore, violence and torture. Child abuse, favouritism, angst, character death. References to sex. Dark!Harry. Evil!Harry. HPLV slash. Spoilers from most of the books at some point. Rated 'M' for safety and future chapters. I think that's all for now.

**PAIRINGS**: Future HPLV.

**NOTES**: I won't be able to update this for a couple of weeks, because I'll be away in Germany. Hopefully I'll have another chapter out reasonably quickly once I get back, though.

Please forgive the incoherency and random thoughts at some points of this. It's _intentional. _Enjoy :3

* * *

"Hey, Potter!" Harry, startled, looked up from the table he was sitting at. Piers Polkiss, Dudley's partner in crime and dedicated suck up, stood over him, looking unusually friendly. His thin, ratlike face seemed strange without its customary sneer. Behind him loomed Dennis Townsend, the tallest boy in the class and Polkiss' fellow crony. He'd always been the most reasonable of Dudley's gang. The few times Harry had talked to Dennis alone he'd been almost nice. Behind Townsend, a crowd of giggling hangers on had gathered, peering curiously round him. Harry wondered what they could possibly want. Dudley hadn't been dropped off yet, and Polkiss wasn't brave enough to pick on someone more than half his size without dear Duddikins there to back him up. They usually left Harry alone in the mornings - especially on the first day back.

Actually, they were usually playing football right about now. Maybe they had called it off, since their star striker Malcolm didn't seem to be in yet. Wouldn't want to play a fair match, now would they? What on earth did they want with him, though?

"Yeah?" he asked after a brief, tense moment of silence. He had better things to do than to listen to another tired repeat of how he was a freak and it was hardly any _wonder _his parents had abandoned him, especially this early in the morning. A thought occurred to him suddenly, and he froze. They weren't going to ask him to play, were they...?

Townsend seemed almost nervous. Harry leaned forwards slightly in anticipation, a foreign warmth flooding his body. He thought it might be hope.

"Well, we were wondering ..." the lanky boy muttered, wringing his hands. Why would he be so nervous about asking Harry to play with them - unless they were worried about Dudley? But then, if they worried about that then they wouldn't be asking in the first place, surely.

"We were wondering..." Townsend repeated, trailing off again. His watery blue eyes seemed to be looking anywhere but at Harry.

"Yeah?" Harry said, softly this time: he was disgusted to recognise the slight tremor in his voice as eagerness.

"Oh, for goodness sake." Polkiss muttered impatiently. "Potter, the hell happened your neck?"

Oh. _Oh._ His cheeks flamed red as he realised. He should have known. Of course they hadn't wanted him to join in.

They just wanted to know what had happened to make the freak even more of a freak.

He should have known that. It wasn't as though the scars on his neck and face weren't _obvious _enough. How stupid was he, anyway?

He swallowed painfully, then launched into an explanation. He wouldn't let them see that they'd gotten to him. It was embarrassing enough to have even thought that they might want to include him without them _knowing_ he'd been thinking it.

"I was attacked," he said, his face a picture of practiced impassivity. He was good at hiding how much things hurt. "by a wolf."

"Wow!" "Really?!" "What happened?!" He winced. The reaction was just as he had expected it would be: instantaneous and _loud. _Their screeching seemed especially ear-destroying this morning.

Through the headache he could already feel forming he could see that they weren't sure whether to believe him or not. He knew why. It wasn't every day you heard that someone had been attacked, never mind a classmate who had a reputation for being a liar (deserved or otherwise).

Well, he'd make them believe him.

He leaned forwards across the table, and began to tell the story with a cheerfully morbid attention to detail that seemed to frighten his classmates: Amy Henderson was ghostly white, her hand pressed to her mouth. He scoffed inwardly. He was the one who'd lived through it, what was _she_ scared for? Even Piers Polkiss was enthralled, though, Harry was amused and pleased to note. He could practically see the thoughts running through the other boy's mind: _wow … looks painful … not even Potter deserves that … scars, cool … is he lying? Bet he is … what a weirdo… he-_

"Oi, freak!" Harry jumped, jerking his head round to face Dudley. He could feel blood pounding at his temples as he struggled to get his breathing back under control. He hated being sneaked up on like that. Normally he'd have heard Dudley from a mile away, but he hadn't noticed his cousin come in at all. "Quit looking at Piers like that, you queer. It's really weird."

Piers jerked back as though he'd been stung and Harry flushed angrily, clenching his fists under the table so hard that his knuckles went white. "Go _away,_ Dudley," he gritted out. "We were just fine without you sticking your ugly mug in." He probably shouldn't have said that, he'd be paying for it later when Dudley told Vernon. He hated letting Dudley walk all over him, though, and God help him but it was hilarious watching Dudley try to process what he'd just said. There was some restless, vicious spirit in him that was egging him on, urging him not to let Dudley get away with this.

"You'll pay for that, Potter." Dudley snarled, and Harry ducked, scrambling awkwardly off the chair. Just in time, too, because the next moment one of Dudley's fat, hammy fists hit the air where Harry's head used to be. Dudley lunged after him.

A quick glance around the room told Harry what he already knew; he wouldn't be getting any help from his classmates. They'd been almost nice earlier, away from Dudley's influence, but the faces he saw now were hostile. A few were shooting him apologetic looks but none of them were willing to stand up to Dudley for the class freak.

He supposed he couldn't really blame them. He wouldn't have stood up for any of _them _for nothing.

He dodged around the table, Dudley lumbering awkwardly after him. "Only if you can catch me, piggywiggy," Harry taunted, giving a sarcastic little wave as he escaped to the other side of the table.

"Are you guys thick? Grab him!" Dudley yelled, his piggy little eyes narrowed in fury. Polkiss, either afraid or still unhappy with the thought that Harry might fancy him (yeah, _right_) lunged at Harry as he passed by the huddle of spectators, grabbing Harry's arms and forcing them behind his back. Caught, Harry thought fast and put on his most sickly-sweet voice.

"Why, Piers," he drawled, "I never knew you felt this way about me!" Apparently that touched a nerve, because Polkiss shuddered violently and shoved him away. Harry shot a defiant smirk at Dudley. "Aw, don't so _mean_, Piers! But I guess if it's true love for you and Dudders, th-"

"Just WHAT is going on in here?" Harry was interrupted as a teacher swept into the room, his wrinkled face a taut mask of fury. "This is your last year at this school - I had expected better manners of you by this point!" The man glared round the classroom, his angry gaze lingering longest on Harry. Harry looked down at his shoes, clenching his fists. He'd never noticed the little patterns in the cheap plastic before now... They were really quite interesting.

"Sit down, all of you." The teacher snapped, and everyone scrambled for their seat except Dudley, who dug his fat fingers into Harry's arm.

"You got lucky, Potter. But you're gonna get it later." the fat boy threatened. Harry stared at him calmly, his face impassive.

"I said NOW, Potter!" With a sudden sneer, Harry wrenched his arm out of Dudley's grasp and returned to his seat at the back of the room. He knew he'd be paying for it later, but he was sick of letting Dudley walk all over him. So sick, so tired of letting Dudley get away with doing whatever he wanted to him. He'd get his own back one day. He swore it.

- - - -

After a lunchtime spent avoiding his cousin and his cronies, Harry found himself yawning and propping his head up against his wrist. The teacher was droning on and on at the front of the room. He didn't even bother pretending to pay attention. Times tables again – did these people really not _get _it already?

Harry squinted at the board through his glasses. He could hardly make out what it said on the board... But as far as he could tell they were still on easy times tables like 3 x 4. He supposed he really shouldn't be surprised - the class was only as good as its stupidest member, after all, and Dudley was pretty damn stupid. Too tired to bother trying to make out any of the rest, he took off his glasses and set them on the table. _Useless things,_ he grumbled mentally. His eyesight almost seemed better without them on.

Bored, he found himself gently running his fingers along his neck as had become a habit over the past few weeks. The short school collar did nothing to hide the wounds twisting up his neck and along his jaw.

They'd healed slowly, the wounds on his neck. The bruises and cuts on his hands and knees and back where he'd hit the concrete had been gone within a week, but a month later the twin gashes torn across his neck and jaw were still swollen and tender. It still felt as though someone was stabbing him every time someone poked them. Harry knew _that _because Dudley made a point to remind him at least a few times a day.

Harry kept a count of all the times Dudley had used him as a personal stress ball. He'd heard that you started to forget things like that as you got older; he didn't want Dudley to get off easy when he found a way to get his own back just because he couldn't remember everything his cousin had done to him. Every punch, every sneer, every taunt, every time Dudley had been lavished with presents and he'd been sent to his cupboard hungry and alone… He'd make them pay for it. He didn't know how yet, but he would get away from them and then he'd make them pay.

He trudged back to Privet Drive, glaring half-heartedly at the kids racing by on their bikes, laughing and shouting. Harry's mouth twisted bitterly as the boy he was watching caught his eye but looked away nervously the moment after. The Dursleys had done a bang-up job of convincing everyone else in the neighbourhood that he was evil incarnate, it seemed.

As soon as he got into the house he flung his school stuff into his cupboard and got started on the chores. Aunt Petunia had taken Dudley out for an ice cream to make up for having to go back to school, but they'd be back soon. She wouldn't be shy about telling Uncle Vernon if she thought he was slacking, and he could happily do without all the trouble that would bring. Especially since he hadn't exactly been a terribly obedient little punching bag earlier... hell, he could probably just not bother with the chores. Uncle Vernon was going to be furious anyway.

He started the chores anyway, grabbing the list Aunt Petunia had left on the kitchen fridge. Do the dishes, do the hoovering, make dinner, polish the silver, do the gardening... nothing particularly out of the ordinary, then. That made life easier.

An hour or two passed and Aunt Petunia returned, Dudley trailing in after her holding a huge ice cream cone. Dudley made a beeline for the TV, but Aunt Petunia came into the kitchen to check that he wasn't slacking off. Harry could tell that Dudley had been complaining: her voice was sharper even than what was normal for her, her brows were furrowed and her shoulders were tense. She wasn't looking at him: she was _glaring. _

_Angry, wants to punish me, but going to wait until Uncle Vernon comes home because she doesn't want to get her hands dirty touching the freak, and she can't think of anything else she can get me to do._ Harry concluded, hacking viciously at the carrots he was preparing for the evening meal.

Uncle Vernon's car rolled into the driveway. _I am so screwed, _Harry thought, staring fixedly at the carrots he was chopping, his hands clenched so tightly around the knife that his knuckles were white. His shoulders were sore from being so hunched and tense.

"Pet, darling, I'm home!" Uncle Vernon must be in a good mood if he's breaking out the pet names, Harry thought, wincing. Uncle Vernon shouted really loudly. Still, he was in a good mood tonight. Harry allowed himself to hope that he might manage to get out of this without broken bones. Uncle Vernon didn't exactly make a habit of hitting him for minor infractions - much too obvious, wouldn't want the neighbours thinking they were in some way abnormal after all - but he did have an explosive temper, and there was very little that made him angrier than the thought that the freak might be one-upping his son in some way.

"Vernon, darling!" Harry couldn't see the two, since they were out in the hall behind the kitchen wall, but he assumed that that wet slurping noise was husband and wife reuniting in one passionate kiss. He shuddered and tried not to think about it too hard. "The boy.." she seemed to hesitate for a moment. Harry paused in what he was doing, his heart thumping wildly. _Here it comes. _"The boy will have your dinner ready soon, dear. Roast beef and veggies, your favourite." _What? Why didn't she tell him? _

Vernon chuckled, and Harry could hear the stomp of his footsteps as he walked into the living room. "The freak's not been a bother then? Good. I'm sure you've had a hard days work, Pet - come in and put your feet up." _A hard days work alright - I'm sure it takes a lot out of you, ordering someone else to do everything. _There was less venom in that thought than usual, though: whatever her reasons might have been (and he was sure they had little to do with wanting to spare him pain) she had at least put off whatever punishment he was going to get for standing up to Dudley earlier.

Harry heard the dull roar of the TV suddenly change pitch, and Dudley gave a strangled, protesting cry that told Harry exactly what had just happened. Apparently Uncle Vernon had something he wanted to watch and tough luck for Dudley. Harry smiled into himself - wasn't often that Dudley got the short end of Uncle Vernon's selfishness. Normally his cousin was criminally indulged.

The carrots had finished cooking now, so Harry set out the plates and started serving the food. It was unusual for Aunt Petunia to leave him alone with the food - normally she was beyond paranoid that he would steal some of it. Not an entirely unwarranted fear, of course, since he would take any opportunity to get food. He had absolutely no compunction about taking theirs - after all, they had far too much of it. They could spare a little for their slave.

He took as much of the meat as he dared, eating quickly and nervously, straining his ears to try and hoping that they wouldn't come in before he was finished.

They didn't.

- - - -

The rest of the evening passed slowly. Harry kept expecting Uncle Vernon to roar at him, but apparently Aunt Petunia hadn't told him yet because he didn't.

Harry hated the anticipation more than anything. He could deal with bruises and broken bones, but he hated not knowing how bad it was going to be when the bricks finally came down on him. He'd been fidgety all night, and he had this strange urge to just get out of the house and do... something. Run. Just anything to get away from here.

"BOY!" Uncle Vernon roared from the living room. Harry winced and slowly set down the plate he was drying. _Uh-oh, _he thought grimly. He'd gotten good at telling how bad the punishments were likely to be over the years... this did _not _sound good.

Better to get it over with, though.

He walked into the living room watching Uncle Vernon warily. Dudley and Aunt Petunia were sitting on the other side of the room, watching TV and ignoring the commotion. They were used to tuning things like this out. Harry was sure of that. "Yes, Uncle Vernon?" he said.

Uncle Vernon started ranting. Harry tuned him out. He'd heard it all before. _How dare you hurt my son blah blah _blah _blah._

He waited for the inevitable shift in tone that would tell him that Uncle Vernon had gotten himself angry enough to actually start lashing out and not just rant at him, and tried to restrain the sudden, totally irrational urge to just _bite _his uncle.

He would taste disgusting. Harry was sure of that, too. Why on earth would Harry want to bite him?

Harry's arms were tingling strangely. He ignored them.

Harry saw Uncle Vernon swinging a fist at him, but he moved too slowly and his face exploded with pain. He stumbled back and the world spunnauseatingly around him and suddenly it wasn't good enough for him to just stand here and take it he wanted to make Vernon _pay._ Bite him, gouge out his eyes, rip out his throat and glory in his pain.

_Pain_. Pain like he'd never felt before. He was being stretched and pulled in every direction and he was screaming and he couldn't think or feel anything but _pain_ and a deep, surging, vicious anger.

_Hunt_. _Bite_. _Kill_.


End file.
